


In the Eyes of Gods and Men

by Fantine_Black



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Blackmail, Cultural Differences, Death Wish, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Grief/Mourning, House Lannister, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Missing Scene, Politics, Queen Sansa, Queen in the North, Relationship Negotiation, Sansa Gets Political, Siblings, The North remembers, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Tywin Is A Bastard, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3138971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantine_Black/pseuds/Fantine_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tyrion neglects to impregnate Sansa with the heir to Winterfell, Tywin decides to take matters into his own hands. But Sansa is no longer a little Northern dove; she is a Lannister with nothing left to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Eyes of Gods and Men

Sansa was well acquainted with many types of fear. First the fear for her father’s safety had accompanied her every waking moment, but that had quickly been replaced with fear for herself: in the capital, pain and death could follow every wrongly chosen word, every mistaken gesture.  
She feared sleeping because she’d see Joffrey’s gleeful smirk and hear the smallfolk’s hungry roar. She feared it, too, because in sleep she’d see the warm smile of her lady Mother and feel her lord Father’s embrace, feel Robb playfully tugging at her hair and watch Arya, Bran and Rickon tumble around near the stables of Winterfell. When she woke, their loss hit her like a brick and she’d beg the Stranger to take her.  
In public, she feared losing her resolve, just once, and giving the court even more reason to mock her; feared disgracing her House, whose name she could no longer wear, but whose blood still warmed her heart. She feared the hatred of the Queen, the malice of the Guard and the ever present desperation of the smallfolk.

So she was slightly surprised at the entirely new terror that gripped her when a Handmaid announced that lord Tywin wanted to speak to her. She exchanged a nervous glance with Shae. “She’s not dressed!” Shae answered for her, quickly fastening her nightgown a little more tightly. She clearly didn’t like this either – Sansa and Tywin had never even exchanged pleasantries; him visiting her chambers hours after dark could not bode well for anything.

The other girl looked apprehensive. “I can’t -” she squeaked, but when she heard the echo of Tywin’s footsteps, she shut her mouth and almost flattened herself against the wall to make way.  
When Tywin appeared, clad in his customary black leather, the Hand’s badge gleaming near his right shoulder, Sansa too felt the urge to cower. Instead, she straightened her back. _He is my guest,_ she thought grimly. _I’ll greet him like my lady Mother taught me._  

She stood up. “Lord Tywin - ”

Tywin ignored her. “Leave us,” he said to Shae as he swept past the Handmaid into the room. Shae shot him a look, but then quickly gathered her skirts and walked past him. She glanced back at Sansa –careful, that meant – before grabbing the other girl’s hand and walking away, leaving the door open behind them.

Sansa didn’t know what to do with herself. Her hair was wet, her blue robe damp, and she was still feeling rosy after a hot scented bath – she was in no state to deal with a Lannister, let alone this one. And Tywin would have known that, she realised bitterly. As she watched him turn around and close the door with a sharp _click,_ she felt anger burn in the pit of her stomach. He had no right to disturb her at this time of night, and no true lord would think to treat her with such little courtesy. Even if that thought was a little hysterical – this was King’s Landing, after all, and she was in the presence of the man responsible for the existence of both Cersei and Joffrey – it gave her something to hold on to. When Tywin turned back to her, she had again managed to compose her features into something resembling ladylike reserve.    

One moment neither of them moved. Then Tywin gave her a condescending little nod.

“Lady Sansa.”

“My lord Hand.” She saw how he mustered her, his eyes lingering as if she was some kind of prized pet. It took all her restraint not to hide behind a pillar. “I am afraid lord Tyrion isn’t here…”

“I know where Tyrion is.”

Good for you, Sansa thought, but of course didn’t comment. “Will you sit, my lord?”

“No need.” He looked at her once more. “How long have you been married, Sansa?”

Sansa took a moment to marvel at his bluntness, but then lowered her eyes. “Less than two months, my lord,” she answered meekly.

“Less than two months.” He smiled ironically. “Sit down, girl.”

Eyes still downcast, Sansa descended the small marble steps that separated the moon and the sun area of her new quarters. She hoped that her hunched shoulders could conceal the fury she was feeling. To be told to sit down in her own – her own – seven hells, nothing in King’s Landing truly belonged to her, but to tell even the lowest guests to sit down in their own given rooms was insulting. If courtesy really was armour, Tywin had not bothered to bring his, and that was…

Well, that was quite fortunate, really.

Her head still bowed, she took the wooden chair furthest from the door, careful not to scrape it over the stone tiles. She always sat there if she had the chance; it was the only chair with a little heft to it, and it reminded her of Winterfell. She nestled herself between the chair and the table, wrapping her robe around her tightly and making absolutely sure not even the hem of her nightgown was visible.  
Hands in her lap, she watched out of the corner of her eye as Tywin helped himself to the wine and figs Shae had placed on a small platter near the door, undoubtedly meant for Tyrion. Sansa hadn’t touched figs since the news broke; she’d hardly eaten anything, apart from a handful of nuts here and there. She hankered, occasionally, for cabbage and meat pies, but the cooks here couldn’t get the taste right; the meat was too tender and the pastry always smelled too much like herbs.

Tywin, however, had no such qualms. “Less than two months married,” he repeated, pouring himself a large cup of wine. “Most newlywed couples hardly leave their chambers during that time.” He drank and took another fig; only after wiping his hands he continued: “Yet here my son is, drinking and whoring as usual.”

He turned back to Sansa.

“I want to know why.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice sounded raspy and strangled, barely audible over the crickets outside.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” After all, to really know her husband’s reasons she had to care about what he was thinking, and right now, she cared more for the contents of her chamber pot than him.

Tywin took a few steps toward her. “He hasn’t said?” he demanded, the faintest traces of doubt in his voice.

She shook her head quickly.

“And you have not asked.”

“No, my lord,” she said, wishing she could just melt into her chair.

“Then you have forsaken your duty!”

They were words like a whiplash, and her whole body flinched. She suddenly felt sympathy for the Queen; growing up with this man must have been terrifying.

It didn’t last long. The Queen was a sadist, and her father was the reason she would never see Robb, scold Arya, hug Bran or kiss Rickon again; the reason her Mother and Father would never rest together in the crypt of Winterfell.

She lifted her head. “It’s not for me to question my lord husband.”

Those words might fool Joffrey, but he was an oaf; she was sure that Tywin would know her true meaning. Yet he looked mildly amused. “Careful now,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to cause misunderstandings.” Then he took a chair opposite her and sat down.

“You may never be Queen,” he said, “but your son will still be lord of Winterfell, with a claim to both the North and the Westerlands. You must see that is not a bad position to be in.” He leant back, waiting for her reaction. When she didn’t answer, he said:

“Don’t you want to go home, Sansa?”

“I…”

It was tempting. To see the Northern plains once more, and its forests; to go hunting, to watch the blue sky and taste the crisp promise of snow... She might see Jeyne, perhaps, or Kate Manderly; she could even visit her half-brother Jon…

She could feel herself slipping, which she couldn’t afford. Scrambling for something to say, she replied: “I thought Roose Bolton...”

“Roose Bolton may have helped end the war, but killing one’s King does not commend one for honorary positions. He will only act as Warden until your son takes his place.”

Sansa looked at him _. King_ , she thought. _Robb was a King._

The thought filled her with a fierce sense of pride, even when staring into the hard eyes of Tywin Lannister. _He murdered my King,_ she thought. _Now he wants his land._ _I’ll not let him have it._

She lowered her head, every inch a picture of grace and pretty submission. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “But King’s Landing is my home now.”

Tywin frowned. “Then you will do as told.” He pushed his chair back, stood up and looked down at her. “You will lie with your lord husband every night until your pregnancy is confirmed by Grandmaester Pycelle.” He stopped for the shortest of moments. “He’ll perform the first examination tomorrow.”

She snapped up her head. “But…Maester Pycelle…” The thought of his horny gaze as his old, shriveled hands prodded between her legs made her violently nauseous.

But Tywin just shrugged. “Don’t worry. He won’t be alone when he examines you. The Queen will be in attendance.”

The Queen’s thin smile would be even worse. “No,” she pleaded faintly, but Tywin didn’t listen; he was almost at the door when she called out: “It’s no use!”

He turned around and crossed his arms. “Beg pardon?”

She’d stood up, clutching the side of the table, willing herself to think faster. “It’s no use, my lord,” she repeated, staring at her hands, “please, my lord husband… he’ll have none of me.”

Tywin scowled. “My son will fuck anything that moves. Especially comely young ladies like you.”

Sansa felt her face burn. “Not me,” she brought out.

Tywin turned back. “I’ve had enough of your lies for one night, girl,” he said, reaching for the door.

“I’m not lying!” Sansa said, her voice taking on a hysterical pitch. “He doesn’t want me, he says I’m too young, he didn’t want a bedding ceremony, you saw him, you were there!”

Tywin looked at her for a split second, then marched back over. “Then tell me,” he said, grabbing her shoulders, “what did he say to you, girl? His exact words!”

Sansa fell silent. It was too much, too perfect. Why, after years of futile prayer, would the gods grant her an opportunity for revenge? Yet she could feel Arya inside her, edging her on; she could see Rickon, eyes blazing, waiting for the fun to start.

 _Do it, Sansa_ , _do it now!_

So she looked at him and smiled.

“ ‘If my Father wants someone to get fucked, I know where he can start’ _._ ”

She saw his eyes grow wider, and ducked away, but he merely let go of her shoulders. “You are trying to get yourself killed,” he stated dispassionately.

 _Yes_ , Sansa thought, _gods_ , _yes_ , but Tywin shrugged. “That won’t work.” He walked back to the little side table and took another sip of wine. Then he continued, as if nothing had happened:

“Do you think you’re the first woman whose husband did not fulfill his marital obligations?”

Sansa sank back into her chair, utterly bewildered. “My lord?”

“There are many reasons why a man might fail to do his duty to his wife,” Tywin said. “Young lords are often called to war, for instance, leaving their Houses at a great disadvantage.” He emptied his cup. “In such cases, another family member might be called upon for assistance. A father, a brother… even a nephew.”

She stared at him in horror. “You mean Joffrey…”

“I’ve spent far too much time dissuading the King from visiting you, and frankly, I’ve had enough.”

This could not be right. “But the child would be a bastard!”

Tywin lifted his chin. “It would be the offspring of two Houses, joined in the eyes of gods and men. The rest is just…semantics.” He put down his cup. “It’s your choice, my lady: persuade your lord husband to do his duty, or service his Grace.”

Gods, this man – pitiless didn’t even begin to describe him. Yet she searched for it regardless, in the harsh lines of his face, the cool grey of his eyes. It was pointless. She’d seen hard men before, but Tywin was harder, and sharp as a blade.

She felt herself stiffen. “I’ll… I’ll speak with my husband, my lord,” she said, her voice sounding desperate even to her.

“Good!” Tywin walked to the door. “Grandmaester Pycelle will see you at noon tomorrow.”

That thought was so revolting she couldn’t help herself. “My lord!”

Tywin turned round irritably. “It’s late, my lady. I trust you’ll want to retire.”

Sansa stood up. “He – lord Tyrion – ” She felt herself blushing deep into her neckline. “He won’t be… able to… tonight, my lord.”

For a long time, Tywin didn’t reply. She could feel him seizing her up as she waited, his gaze trawling over every inch of her skin. In spite of the fire, she shivered.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Go and lie down.”

She gasped. “B… beg pardon?”

Tywin came walking towards her. “Words are wind, Sansa,” he said calmly. “Besides, Tyrion might prove to be far less reluctant when he finds the deed has already been done.”

He looked so calm. Had he looked that way, too, when they told him that her sweet Robb had been slaughtered?  

She backed away.

“No!”

Tywin sighed. “I don’t wish to hurt you. It can be over in no time at all.”

Sansa felt herself tremble. “I don’t care!” she said. “I will kill myself before I bear your bastard!”

They stared at each other, one moment, two. Then Tywin spoke.

“We have ways of preventing that, my lady. You wouldn’t like our methods.”

“I can wait,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll kill it when no-one’s looking!”

“Ah.” Now he actually smiled. “Many women have made a similar threat. They, of course, never saw their babies again – that would have been far too dangerous.” His mouth twisted. “It’s a hard thing to watch, my lady. I wouldn’t wish the same for you.”

Sansa struggled to answer, but found no words. Tywin’s voice was like poison, laming her muscles and stealing her breath. She looked away as he turned around; a moment later, she heard his belt hit the floor. “Now, if you would oblige me,” he said calmly. “I said I didn’t want to hurt you. I did not say I wouldn’t.”

Sansa hung her head. “My lord.” She bit back a sob as she started for the bed. Again, the monster won. The monsters always won…

_Not true._

As she looked around involuntarily to see who had spoken, her gaze rested on her one porcelain doll. It lay on the bed, almost forgotten, and yet she felt drawn to it, somehow compelled to take it into her arms.

Her lord Father’s last gift.

At first, all she remembered was her childish hurt. The rage she had felt as he had tried to replace Lady with a doll, a _doll,_ while Lady had been a part of her, something of the North that was soft, and sweet, and gentle…

But now she remembered her Father’s face, as clearly as if he stood before her.

She’d never really understood him – she’d never really tried. There’d always been a hint of darkness to him, a place she couldn’t reach. But now she knew that the darkness had been born of grief, for his dead father, his brother, his sister; the fact his last remaining brother had been sworn to the Night’s Watch…

Sansa felt her heart race. Her lord Father had been where she was now, but he had not wallowed, he had taken revenge on those who had wronged them. He’d driven out the Targaryens, and because of that, a Stark had once again been King in the North…

 _Gods be good,_ Sansa thought. _I’m a Queen._

It was as if she could feel them; Robb, her lord Father, her grandfather Rickard, as far back as Torrhenn and the very first Bran.

She pulled back her shoulders and turned to face Tywin.

“You will not hurt me,” she said softly.

“Of course I won’t hurt you,” he said irritably. “Stop wasting my – ”

“No, lord Tywin,” she said, a smile curling round her lips. “You will _not_ hurt me. And neither will Joffrey, or anyone else.”

Tywin raised his eyebrows. “And why would that be?”

“Because it is not my son you need,” she said simply. “It’s me.”

Tywin snorted. “Lie down, girl,” he said, but Sansa took a step forward.

“How many enemies have you made during this war, lord Tywin?”

“Enough to make every army in the Seven Kingdoms reconsider marching South,” he snapped. He started opening his coat with fast, jerky movements. “Now get on that bed, girl, or I will hold you down myself.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush, but she stood firm. “If you do that, you’ll have as good as lost the North.”

He stopped. “What did you say?”

“The Northmen swore allegiance to Robb before a single sword had been drawn,” Sansa said. “What’s stopping them doing something like that again?”

“The Northern armies have been decimated. Winterfell is a ruin. Their coastline is threatened by raids. If they go to war now, they will be dead before winter.”

“They won’t have to go to war,” Sansa said. “Winter is coming, my lord. The only thing Bolton would have to do then is close the Kingsroad.”

“Then they will all starve,” Tywin said dismissively. “Roose Bolton is very much smarter than that.”

“They will not,” Sansa said. She met Tywin’s eyes. “Though Bolton wouldn’t care if they did. Unless he acts first, the other Northmen will oust him before winter is done.”

Tywin smirked. “They might have in peacetime, little girl. Not now they’ve been beaten.”

“You never beat Robb,” Sansa spat at him. “We lost far fewer bannermen, and our smallfolk have always been well fed and rested.” She saw Tywin’s jaw set, so she continued quickly: “Bolton will turn on you the first chance he gets. If he does not claim the North for himself, he’s finished.”

“Which is why we need a baby to weaken his claim.”

It was more a question than a statement. Tywin was still looking at her, but for the first time he seemed interested, as if it actually mattered that she had something to say. It made her feel bold enough to answer:

“A Southron child? Whose family killed my lord Father, and broke the peace that they’ve bled for? They’d sooner follow a wildling!”

Tywin walked back to the larger table and sat down. He poured himself another cup of wine before he answered: “Then why do I need you?”

Sansa laughed, confused. "My lord?"

Tywin looked at her. "Your baby won't keep the North from rebelling, and you've threatened to kill it when you get the chance. So what use are you to me? The King would love an excuse to have you executed." 

 _He really doesn’t know_ , Sansa thought, astonished. _He thinks a woman’s only worth lies in her children._

It explained so much. She had often wondered why Queen Cersei’s life seemed so futile – all she ever did was drink wine, prance around and fuss over her children. She received few letters and sent even fewer; she had no fosterlings to keep her children company, she hardly ever received visitors, she spent little time in the Sept and cared little for the running of the Red Keep, let alone King’s Landing itself.

But she’d never had a mother. And Tywin seemed to have little patience for feasts, tourneys or weddings, places were women could gather to plan, get advice and create loyalties…

"'There must always be a Stark at Winterfell'. Those aren't Stark words, lord Tywin." She straigthened her back. "The Northern families know that no Stark would ever fail their bannermen or let their smallfolk starve. If I tell them that your Lannister gold will be used to provide knighthoods for their sons and dowries for their daughters, they'll believe me. I could promise to build new sawmills, lower taxes and protect the fishing villages from the raids.” She paused. “That’s more than lord Bolton will ever do.”

Tywin smirked. “Yet it’s nothing my son Tyrion could not tell them himself.”

“They will never trust him.”

“But they'll trust you."

"If I want them to."

"And if you don't?"

"Then, lord Tywin, you'll soon have only six Kingdoms to govern."

Tywin tilted his head back. “What makes you think you have a choice? You'll say whatever I want you to say."

Sansa lowered her head. “As my lord commands. But what would I know of taxes? I don’t have a head for figures. Or sawmills. I’m just a stupid little girl…”

Tywin’s mouth twisted. “Spare me.” He drank, then put down his cup. “Well, this has been enlightening.” He suddenly started fastening his coat, picked up his belt and put it on. Then he walked away yet again.

Sansa felt her head spin. “What about Pycelle?” she called after him.

Tywin turned. “That won’t be necessary.” He gave her a half smile. “You’ve surprised me, my lady. Until now, my children have not shown much sense in dealing with matters of state. You might prove to be an exception.”

Sansa gasped. “I am not your daughter!”

“But you are. In the eyes of both gods and men.” He smiled again.

“Goodnight, my girl.”

That night, Sansa again prayed to the Stranger. But however much she begged him to take them, all of them, Tywin most of all, the god's reply was silence.


End file.
